


The Break

by airy_nothing



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, Tumblr: klaineadvent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 8,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airy_nothing/pseuds/airy_nothing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets from Kurt and Blaine’s life as Just Friends until they’re Something More again, beginning with the phone call from “Thanksgiving” (4x08) and basically AU from that moment on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Written for borogroves' Klaine Advent Drabble Challenge, which means that each piece came to life via a one-word prompt. These drabbles (technically, many are ficlets) really do follow from one another as chapters, but I think they work nicely as stand alone pieces too—most of which are more like prose poems than typical fiction . . . enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: Timing

It’s when he just can’t stand it anymore, when he’s just completely  _full_ —thanks to Rachel and Brody’s gross turkey carcass foreplay and the utter delight of the kiki, their New York apartment packed with beautiful orphans, the music and laughter and pleasure of it all—that something seems to yield inside him, and he feels a pull that Rachel doesn’t, a pull toward what is home and yet not-home, toward what would’ve been a quiet meal with family.  _With Blaine,_ he thinks, but  _no_. There shouldn’t be room for that thought. Not yet.

He finds himself being pulled outside anyway, through the apartment window and into the familiar quiet, yet not-quiet that is the city.

As Kurt crouches on the metal framework of the fire escape, his fingers glide across his phone’s smooth glass, searching for the one number he’s hungry to dial. And he wonders whether Blaine is on stage already, singing his heart out for a trophy that rings hollow to Kurt, if he’s being honest, now that he’s here.

His thumb hovers over Blaine’s number as taxis ferry stuffed passengers, and even as Kurt senses the pulse of music playing inside the crowded loft, he suddenly feels  _light,_ just a little, as his finger makes contact with the screen.

“Hello?”

 


	2. Material (prompt: history)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: History

“Nightbird, hmm?” says Kurt, eyeing the costume hanging in Blaine’s closet. He runs his fingers over the hard plastic armor, pulls at the glittery cape with its namesake’s silhouette hovering over the moon. He glances behind him at Blaine and remarks, “I forget how artistic you are,” and then pauses before waving his hand with a flourish and adding, “Bedazzler—charming soloist by day, glue-gun wielding crafter by night.” Grinning, Kurt watches as Blaine looks down and chuckles softly, shaking his head. 

Blaine’s silence draws Kurt’s attention back to the closet, to this row of hanging artifacts, so many of which are unfamiliar. He glides each sweater vest along the rod, noting color and texture and weight, the only sound in the room the metallic note of each hanger’s hook as he drags it past, and it feels like he’s trying to recover lost time, on this quiet winter’s night as snow falls, so fragile and tentative.


	3. Across the Smiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: Hideaway

Blaine knows something’s wrong when he begins obsessively planning a serenade—for Kurt. 

It happens after a weeknight phone call, after several awkward conversations between them and whatever they have now, this friendship that is and yet isn’t. Those first calls were uncomfortable, Blaine admits, relying only on their voices to connect, but to actually see each other felt like too much, too soon. It would feel like  _more_. 

There was a lot of clarifying during those calls:  _You’re not just_ listening _, right? Do you really_ hear _me?_ There were a lot of forced segues:  _But enough about me, let’s talk about you now. What about you?_

Then there’s a call one night, where they both have something to share, just catching up‚ and there shouldn’t be a pressure to  _have_  to do all this, they’re just friends now and there’s a different kind of responsibility they have, or don’t have, to each other. But Kurt scores a victory, a solo at some NYADA function, and Blaine has something, too, because the Secret Society of Superheroes is going to perform at the children’s hospital, and Blaine’s  _planned_  this and he’s proud but is freaking out about some of the details. 

There’s a point where the conversation starts to veer, it’s a bit too much NYADA and then it’s Rachel and Brody and Blaine feels his heart rate pick up. Just like that, he’s left behind— _again_. Panic sets in, and anger too, at his being like this, when they aren’t what they were. He wants to get off the phone, nonetheless, to retreat, and already he’s opening his laptop to look for a song.

He closes it instead. 

Then he takes a deep breath, which Kurt doesn’t quite notice, his melodic voice rich with enthusiasm. Blaine gathers up the words as if in his arms, clutching them, really, and it takes all he has to simply launch them—at Kurt, because Kurt needs to know, even if the words are inelegant, without music. “Could you stop?” Blaine chokes out. “This feels like … like  _before_.” 

Kurt hears him.

Later, after they reset themselves, both boys sit in silence, not willing to let go just yet. “So,” Kurt asks, “What song? You were thinking of singing one to me, weren’t you?”

Suddenly, Blaine can hear his friend’s smile, transmitted somehow across the air. He smiles back, knowing Kurt will hear it too, then changes the subject. They talk about the weather. They talk about the unseasonal warm front moving across the parts of the world they both call home. They talk about whether the groundhog will see his shadow, and retreat to his underground hideaway. 


	4. Multitasking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: Brick

One winter weeknight Blaine is watching Kurt through the Skype window on his laptop, where Kurt is busy doing homework. Blaine continues to gaze at his friend, even though Kurt’s not even looking back—Kurt’s engrossed in reading, resting his head wearily on both hands. 

It’s turned into an almost-game, because Blaine knows Kurt will pause in a moment and glance up—and Kurt will catch Blaine looking at him before Blaine will grin, shyly, and return to his own homework. And he’ll feel Kurt’s eyes on him. And they’ll go back and forth like this, for the rest of the evening. 

Even though they’re not even speaking, Blaine can hear Kurt’s sighs, and pen clicks, and the creak of his desk chair as he stretches—at which point Blaine will be happy to sneak a peek at Kurt’s limbs as they reach toward the vaulted ceiling of the loft. 

While they work their TV’s are on too, the volume low. It’s  _The Wizard of Oz_ tonight, and every now and then they sing along with the characters, softly. 

Blaine glances up to see Kurt putting a single headphone in his ear. “What are you doing now?” he asks.

“Listening to Sondheim,” replies Kurt.

“While you’re reading and watching  _Oz?”_ Blaine asks with a smirk. Blaine pauses, then shakes his head, chuckling. “Can you even imagine what it will be like for our kids someday?” he asks. “We’re watching a movie, listening to music, watching each other  _and_  doing homework. And I know you’ve been texting Rachel,” he adds, laughing now. “How will they get anything done at all?”

But Kurt doesn’t laugh in response, as Blaine’s mind races to catch up with what he’d said.  _Oops_. As Blaine waits for Kurt to respond, to remind him that  _we’re just friends now what are you talking about,_  he urges himself to breathe. 

But Kurt merely raises an eyebrow and says, feigning disinterest, “How many?”

And Blaine has to really pause now and rewind this conversation in his mind, before he knows for sure what to say. “A boy and a girl would be nice,” he says tentatively, shrugging. Kurt nods then goes back to work, a slight smile playing on his lips. 

Blaine tries to refocus his attention on the history homework in front of him, but instead glances over at the TV glowing across the room, thinking about what it must have been like back then, in the 1930’s, to be sitting in the theatre, staring up at the gigantic screen as your black-and-white world went Technicolor for the first time ever, the road before you paved with golden bricks. 

 


	5. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: Sheets

Kurt’s rifling through a tower of sheet music one chilly afternoon, searching for a tune to sing at Callbacks, one powerful enough to erase the memory of the last time he was there. He really wants to go; he just doesn’t want it to hurt. Honestly, nothing lately really  _hurts_ —he and Blaine are healing, happy friends. Callbacks is more like a phantom pain he wants to exorcise. 

The phone rings as he lugs the pile across the room, his chin a clamp securing everything in place. Holding the stack from the bottom with one hand, he reaches for the cell with the other, then stumbles. The stack takes flight, wheeling out of his arms, sheets separating and charting their own paths—some curling toward the ceiling, others slowly wafting toward the floor. A sound like startled birds rushing from their perch echoes around the loft, then dies down.

In the middle of the room Kurt stands surrounded by paper, the call forgotten. He squats down to pick up one of the sheets, then chuckles. It’s “Over the Rainbow,” and his memory fills instantly with the recent image of he and Blaine singing through homework, Blaine tapping his pen on the desk to speed the tempo, to ease them into a more jazzy, breezy tune.

Kurt smoothes the edges of the page. Quarter notes are settled into their places, lined up like sparrows along telephone wires. Kurt opens his mouth and lets the first sounds rise up in his throat. He lets them fly. 

 


	6. Vital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: Carol

It’s late on a Saturday in mid-winter, and the sky is streaked with soft pinks and purples as the day settles down. The house is silent, and as Carole sips coffee from the kitchen table while finally getting to today’s newspaper, she looks out at the sky and remembers standing knee-deep in snow as a kid in Toledo, carving tunnels as long as daylight would allow. She remembers the way her face would sting upon entering the house, once the colors in the sky gave way to darkness. And she remembers peeling off her layers, and the _swish_ of nylon as it fell from her body.

The creak of the front door and shuffling of boots bring her back to the present, to the layers of dull print she holds between her fingers, and she looks up, smiling, at Kurt, who enters first—followed by Blaine. She feels the cold air waft around them, fresh and clean, because they’ve spent the day skating on the Auglaize. She laughs when she sees them, their red noses and cheeks (probably stinging), their hair as the hats are tossed, their hue and joy that come off them in waves, holding back the night.


	7. Life of the Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: Ghost

It makes feel Kurt feel very grown up to be here, finally, with Rachel—not as her shadow at another NYADA party, but as a person, just a person who belongs. Who exists. 

So there must have been something in the air on this night that is unseasonably warm for winter, warm enough as they walked up the street to actually  _smell_  the mix of earth and exhaust and last autumn’s decayed leaves, still lying in the creases where apartments rise up from the pavement. 

Inside he’s enveloped in candles and cologne and smoke—and aromas from the endless cocktails passed around the group of students and friends just here to loosen up on a weekend. The scents and sounds of laughter and conversation linger in the air; they hover and Kurt feels them pressing down on him all of a sudden, like he needs to wrest himself away from people he’s been shadowing for so long—or people who shadow him, like ghosts. 

He finds himself out on the balcony, sharing the air with someone—a man who looks at him with longing, who’s runway-dressed and tall and blonde and green-eyed, and so very not  _Blaine_. But he’s real. He’s  _here_.

They talk softly into the night. 

When the man first kisses Kurt, it’s foreign but not unwelcome. He needs _different_ , especially now that his whole world has shifted. 

He presses his lips harder against the other man’s. He forces his eyes open so he can bear witness, hoping maybe the feeling of flesh and the sight and smell of this person who is everything Blaine is not, will push the ghosts away. 

They don’t. The entire time Kurt can sense them, swirling around him in the dark.

 


	8. Measurement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: Sketch

When Blaine clicks the attachment and the sketch stretches open across his laptop screen, he has to cover his mouth to keep the scream from escaping. 

It’s not just that the two suits are gorgeous—especially Kurt’s. They’re impeccable. Genius. Perfect. No, the reason Blaine can’t quell the intense emotions he’s feeling is the writing beneath the image, which reads, “Tell me what you think. Be HONEST.” And further down, “They don’t match  _too_ much, do they?”

Blaine bites his lip, because Kurt is seriously asking for a response to some ensembles he’s designed—for himself and his date.

 _Not a boyfriend,_  Blaine thinks quickly.  _Just a crummy little date._

But the date isn’t crummy at all—it’s a wedding reception, one happening too close to home, since it’s Mr. Shue and Miss Pillsbury who are finally tying the knot. 

Blaine can picture the reception hall already, decked out with billowy fabrics and delicate flowers, with artfully-disguised canisters of antiseptic wipes on each table. And in the midst of finery and flora and candlelight, of wait staff bearing crudités, Blaine will likely be sitting by himself as Kurt enters with his date, looking miraculous and ethereal, in complementary suits embellished with Kurt’s artistry. Blaine will smile his smile, the one that hides what he really thinks. He’ll shake hands and demonstrate the appropriate amount of awe for a friend. 

What he  _won’t_  do is imagine himself in that other suit (the one he’ll think, if he didn’t know better, has some embellishments meant more for him than the Other Guy). He won’t let his mind lose itself in wedding fantasies involving Kurt, who he’s never stopped loving, nor ever will. 

He’ll smile his smile. He’ll lean on his other friends just a little bit more. 

A bit less frantic now, he hits Reply and writes, “I love them.” And, tongue-in-cheek, adds, “They don’t match too much at all.” 

Then he hits Send.

 


	9. Mortar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: Wall

It’s early spring, and the Secret Society of Superheroes Club has moved their meeting outside for the day. They’re practicing Important Superhero Things.

One group, led by Dr. Yes, is lined up in a field, partners in position across from each other, practicing Combat Moves. It starts out as fun, because Tarantula Head’s lashing his dreads like crazy, but everything devolves quickly once Femme Fatale starts cracking her whip, and glittery colors flash against the brownish-green field as superheroes duck for cover.

The other group, led by Nightbird, stands at the bottom of a brick wall. The wall itself seems rather impressive, at least from Nightbird’s vantage point. That’s partly because close up, it’s not as noticeable that the wall is merely the back of the football field’s concession stand.

Nightbird stands tall, grappling hook in hand. “Today,” he proclaims, “We’re going to practice scaling this wall.” He points at the wall for emphasis.

“Stand back, everyone,” Nightbird says, and by now all the superheroes have gathered near the wall, even though back on the field, an occasional crack of a whip still punctuates the air.

Blonde Chameleon, who’s standing right at Nightbird’s side, puts a face on and says in his best George W. drawl, “Maybe we should talk _strategery_ first.”

Instead, they watch as the hook is launched into the air. On the first toss, the rope snaps taut and the hook lands on the ground with a thud. “Oops,” Nightbird says. “Um, I forgot to give it some slack.” He straightens himself up, hands on hips, and gets ready to try again. “And now,” he says dramatically, “Let’s tackle this wall.”

The Human Brain rushes forward, slamming her body into it. “It didn’t work, Nightbird,” she says, rubbing her shoulder in confusion. Nightbird just looks at her, then focuses again on the grappling hook. It sails up into the air, just the right angle this time, and lands with a metallic ting as it makes contact with the roof of the structure.

“Yes!” Nightbird shouts, but then as he tugs the rope to secure it for their climb, the hook catches on the corner of the roof, which Nightbird supposes, come to think of it, is probably kind of old. A huge chunk of the roof tumbles down, along with the hook.

“Shit!” yells one of the Mega Studs. “Let’s get out of here before we get in trouble!”

Chaos erupts as the superheroes scramble, running back and forth like idiots to grab their gear—and get back to their Civilian Identities.

As they turn away from the field en masse, the group pulls up short. Queen Bee aims her phone at them. “You look like total idiots. This one’s going to sting like a bitch! Bzzz!” she says, then ends her recording.

Nightbird walks up to her. “Becky,” says Blaine, quietly, the hint of a smile emerging on his face. “Let me see your phone for a minute.” She looks back at him questioningly, rolls her eyes, then hands it over.

Miles away in Bushwick, Kurt is lying on his bed in the loft, phone in hand, cackling at the sight of the superheroes’ video. He hits pause and play in rapid succession to get just the frame he wants—of Blaine running toward him on the screen, his black armor and royal blue detailing, his cape billowing in the air. Kurt thinks he’s never seen anything quite so beautiful.


	10. Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: Never

It’s when the man Kurt’s been not-quite dating gives him a present—just a pale, shimmery scarf—that Kurt’s world turns on its head. It’s  _tangible_  in a way that Kurt doesn’t expect, so at home that night in Bushwick he puts it in the trash and goes immediately to his sock drawer to extract a tiny red box. He opens it and the memories it contains.

_What are you promising?_

_To always love you; to defend you even when I know you’re wrong; to surprise you; to always pick up your phone call no matter what I’m doing; to bake you cookies at least twice a year; to kiss you wherever and whenever you want; but mostly, just to make sure that you always remember how perfectly imperfect you are._

Kurt touches the tiny paper bow tie adorning the gum-wrapper ring that he’s kept tucked away. Enough time has passed for Kurt to laugh indignantly at how Blaine “surprised” him. Back when there was no laughter, just tears and throwing things at the wall,  _always_  had become  _never_ , and a different set of promises had spilled from Kurt’s lips as he’d stormed about the loft.

_To never speak to you again; to never be at your side; to never respond to your calls; to never make anything for you ever; to never kiss you, no matter how many times you apologize; and mostly, to make sure you never forget how imperfect you are._

He takes the ring out and slips it on his finger, knowing that at some point  _never_ gave way to something else. Not quite  _always_ , but probably, someday soon, something better.

_To never forget what you mean to me; to never forget to show you; to never forget to try._


	11. Tolling of the Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: bell

At McKinley the school bells are meant to startle people—out of the nap they’re taking, out of a hallway conversation. They’re less music, more alarm.  _Get moving,_  they sing.

But as Blaine shuts the door of his car and steps out on to the parking lot just outside of Dalton Academy at midday, he hears the stately music coming from the bell tower to announce that it’s noon. 

_Hear the bells chime  
_ _They tell the time  
_ _What do they say?  
_ _The time of day_

That lovely melody is one of the things—one of the few, good things—left of this place, Blaine thinks. As the clock strikes the hours, images flood his memory, of himself running across the lawn in blazer and tie, late for class; or studying in some corner of the library, only to be interrupted by friends.

And then, other things—

A morning long ago when he stood at the iron gates, just a boy who’d gotten naiveté beaten out of him.

A moonlit Warblers’ performance, snow falling on his eyelashes while he’d sung.  

A shortcut that wasn’t actually short, but led him right into the hands of a dream.

Blaine realizes he’s been walking through his reverie and finds himself in the middle of the quad. He gathers himself, trying to remember why he’s even here. It has nothing to do with New Directions. Or the Warblers, for that matter. 

Worried now he’ll run into someone he knows, Blaine quickens his step to find the office of an old teacher—one he’d actually respected. One who is writing a recommendation for him, since he doesn’t think letters from many of the McKinley faculty can help his college applications particularly. It’s polite, Blaine knows, to see his teacher in person like this, even though it feels he’s risking something to be here. 

Sure enough, as he enters his teacher’s building, Blaine catches a glimpse of a familiar frame, a familiar smile, and a less-familiar gelled hairstyle. Of  _course_  it’s Sebastian who happens to spot him today. Blaine sighs.

“Blaine Anderson,” Sebastian says, accosting him, then matching his stride. “What brings you here today?” Eyeing Blaine up and down he adds, “You gonna put that cape on again and try to steal  _our_ trophy? And if you do, can I watch?”

“Hello, Sebastian,” Blaine says evenly, keeping his eyes focused straight ahead. “What do you want?”  

“You know what, Blaine? I’m glad your here, actually, because I was curious about something and didn’t get to ask before,” he says, smirking now. “I really need to know: why did you and Loverboy break it off? Did he finally realize you were out of his league? That you were too good for him?”

Sebastian’s words—those words—strike too close. Blaine huffs out a bitter laugh and says, “I can’t believe I ever  _admired_  you.”

“You admired me?” Sebastian stops and turns toward Blaine, and for just a moment he looks like he did when Blaine had first met him, charming and friendly.

Blaine shrugs. “Yeah—well, I did, a bit. You were … you seemed like you had all these  _experiences_  I hadn’t. And it probably didn’t hurt that you looked up to me in spite of that,” Blaine says, not sure why any of this matters anymore, but then something makes contact inside him—the bell goes off as it were—and he adds, an idea taking shape in his mind, “But you saw me as something to win. You  _still_ see me as something to win. And it’s like, even though I lost Kurt he was never _that_. And even if we end up together again, it won’t be because I  _won_  him back, like he’s a  _trophy_.” He looks at Sebastian, who’s rolling his eyes. “And you don’t even get what I’m saying,” Blaine continues, smiling now, “and it doesn’t even matter, because I’m just  _done_. Goodbye, Sebastian,” Blaine says and simply walks away. 

Moments later he arrives at the teacher’s office, with its dark, paneled door, with its gold nameplate. Blaine raps a quick hello with his knuckles, and as the door opens to a face he’s actually happy to see, the bells note the hour, and it’s just another hour—each one counting down what’s left of Blaine’s past and present. As Blaine shakes the hand of this man who used to know him, the bells continue to ring, sounding the start of his future.

 


	12. Not-So-Long Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: Diner

Sitting across from Kurt at the diner—some traveler’s stopping point off I-80 near Youngstown—Blaine finds himself struggling to keep his composure. And that’s really saying something. 

It feels like ages since they’d skated on the Auglaize, the last time they’d been alone together. Blaine recalls that afternoon, how after skating Kurt sat primly on a fallen tree while Blaine walked gingerly along the bank, seeking rocks of various sizes that he proceeded to toss up haphazardly onto the frozen face of the river. Some rocks had slid across the ice until they met resistance of some kind, while larger ones had bounced with an initial  _thwack_  that left pockmarks scattered on the surface.

Some time after that quiet, lazy day came the wedding and the awkwardness that was meeting Kurt’s date. But they’d survived that, they’d survived Blaine telling Kurt that he wasn’t sure about applying to NYADA, that he wasn’t sure about New York even, anymore. Somehow, they’re still speaking. And that’s really saying something.

Now they’re sitting at this diner, this hole in the wall, meeting here because it’s the best they can do, because Blaine’s father won’t allow him to drive across the state line, prompting Kurt to borrow a car. And it smells like grease in the dark truck stop, and their table has a tiny pool of liquid on its surface left behind by the last costumers, and they’re sitting and Kurt has just told Blaine he is single again. And what Blaine absolutely cannot do is tell Kurt what Kurt surely already knows, that Blaine is so completely in love with him. So Blaine is careful not to slip, he’s deliberate in his movements and words.  _What would a friend say?_

“So you’ve updated your Facebook profile, then?” Blaine decides to ask. Kurt’s grin in response tells him he’s struck the right tone.

“That’s right—I’m free as the proverbial bird now,” Kurt says, his eyes sparkling, as he peels the paper wrapper off the utensil and napkin bundle and starts to smooth the napkin across his lap, his eyebrow raised as he gently lays the paper strip down.    

Feeling more comfortable, Blaine rests his elbow on the table, his chin in his hand, then jerks his arm up suddenly, feeling the wet spot forming there. “Great,” he says, dabbing at his shirt with a napkin. “I don’t even know what that  _is.”_

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” says Kurt, smiling now. “So,” he continues, “What do you think is safe to eat here?”

Blaine flips the menu over, scanning it. “They’ve got cheesecake at least. And you know what?” he adds, leaning forward over the table, cautiously flirty. “I wouldn’t be offended at all if you snapped your fingers at the waitstaff to get it.”

Kurt laughs, and they slide easily into conversation again.

And so they’re here, halfway, Blaine thinks, looking out the window at the cars breezing past, heading who knows where. 

And that’s really saying something.

 


	13. Leaving Youngstown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: Moth

As soon as Kurt opens the door leading to the parking lot, the sudden onslaught of sound—the whoosh of cars barreling down the highway, the intermittent rattle of trucks towing trailers—almost drowns out Blaine’s talking. Almost.

“… so Gandalf sees this _moth—_ this tiny thing that sort of  _acknowledges_  him, you know? And so he just gets up and literally jumps off the tower, totally trusting that he understood that little moth’s message, just having  _faith_  that this giant eagle—his name is Gwaihir, I think …” 

“Ok, ok. I got it,” Kurt says to Blaine, laughing at his friend’s unabashed animation, as they leave the diner in Youngstown. Kurt’s stomach has been doing flip flops, but he can’t tell if it’s due to the rubbery cheesecake, or, well, because of  _Blaine_. Kurt leans toward him as they near their cars. “Let me ask you something? When did you become—and I mean this with the  _utmost_  respect—such a geek?” Kurt smiles and meets Blaine’s gaze, but he’s surprised to find Blaine wearing a shy expression. Kurt’s heart skips a beat as he worries he went too far in teasing him. “Blaine?” he asks.

They arrive at their cars, and Blaine leans back against his, hands in his pockets. He glances at the ground, then back up at Kurt. “Is it weird?” he asks, toeing a lump of asphalt. “We’ve known each other for a long time, now, but sometimes I think you might not really know me as well as you should.” 

Kurt notices Blaine’s quick glance to the side, a sign that he’s uncomfortable now. He reaches out to him, touches him lightly on the arm. He wishes they were somewhere quiet and calm, not this loud, open space where the wind is picking up, nudging plastic bags up off the pavement. The bags start to roll like tumbleweeds toward the shrubs that line the lot. “Talk to me?” he says.

“It’s just—” Blaine starts. “In this time we’ve been apart I think I realized something. About me. Lots of things, actually,” he says, one hand reaching to rub the back of his neck as he speaks. He takes a breath then says, quietly, “I think I spent a lot of time trying to be the perfect boyfriend to you,” then, rolling his eyes, “and of course screwing that up royally every chance I got.” Shaking his head, he continues, “I dunno. It’s not that I hid things from you. But,” he says tentatively, “I think we maybe spent more time talking about your stuff than … mine?”

Kurt hears nothing but Blaine now, and after glancing about to make sure they’re alone (they are), he steps forward and takes Blaine in his arms. And as the roar of the cars comes back, and the feeling of wind whipping at his hair, Kurt finds himself suddenly curious about this boy, and hopeful about the adventures they’ve yet to have. He just wishes like hell that they don’t involve giant eagles.

 


	14. Fixit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: Breath

When Burt arrives at the shop one morning, he spies Blaine’s car idling outside. He watches the boy turn off the ignition and step out, his eyes seemingly fixed on something near the ground.

Burt gets out of the truck and walks up to him, following Blaine’s line of sight. “‘Morning,” he says. “What’s going on?” He gestures toward whatever it is Blaine has spotted.

Blaine’s staring down at the ground, smiling. “First flowers of spring, huh?” he says, meeting Burt’s eye. “I never noticed these crocuses before.” They barely peek out of the soil, but their purple hue is bright and welcome after another Lima winter. 

“Kurt planted those,” Burt says, adjusting the brim of his cap. “That was—years ago, now. Wanted to spruce things up. He’d just planted a handful, but now we have all these.” He gestures toward the border of purple and yellow shoots emerging from the soil in a straight line along the front of the shop.

“Why am I not surprised?” Blaine asks, wearing that huge, goofy grin of his—like he’s some kind of lovesick puppy. Which, Burt supposes, he is. 

“Well, let’s go then,” says Burt, and they head inside, Blaine following close behind.  

Ever since Burt discovered that Blaine’s sudden, frequent visits were part of a promise he’d made to Kurt—to keep an eye on him in the wake of the news about his health—Burt decided to at least get something out of the deal. So for a while now on Saturdays, Blaine works on cars. 

This morning Blaine’s going to be changing a car’s tire. There’s a Civic on the lift waiting for him. Burt can tell something’s bothering him today, though—the kid looks like he’s got some idea rattling around in his head, with the way he idles in front of the cart of tools before picking up a lug wrench. 

“Out with it, kid,” Burt says. “I haven’t got all day.” 

“Nah,” responds Blaine, smiling again. “It’s nothing,” he says, then pauses. “Do you think—” he starts again. “Do you think Kurt will ever take me back?”  

And this is the difference, Burt thinks, raising his eyebrow at Blaine, between his own son and this boy who is like a son. For all the ease with which they work on the cars every weekend, or talk sports, it’s moments like these, where Blaine is in doubt, that he notices it the most. Kurt’s not one to let you see him waver. He’ll tell you what’s on his mind, the options he’s considering, he’ll express his anger or excitement or whatever he’s feeling, and he’ll find a way to deal with it. But Blaine, Blaine asks questions. He needs a pat on the back. He needs his assurances. 

And Burt, Burt is glad he knows this, so he can give them. “Did something happen?” he asks. 

“No,” says Blaine, still hesitant. “I mean, we saw each other last weekend for just a little while in Youngstown, and it was great. It just still feels like we’re … looping around, like we’re circling each other. When will it feel normal again?” 

“What’s normal?” offers Burt. “Normal like before? You want to go back to the way things were before?” 

Blaine looks up at him questioningly, wrench still in his hand. “So you’re saying I should just accept it will never be like it was?”  

“Well—maybe yeah,” says Burt. “That doesn’t make it bad, just  _new_.”

Blaine puts his hands on his hips, nodding, wheels turning again.

“Just take a deep breath, Blaine.”

Blaine does.

Burt rolls his eyes. “Now let it out,” he says, shaking his head in amusement.  _This kid._


	15. Pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: Kept

Kurt’s in the small storage area in the lower level of their building, trying not to get dirty.

There are layers of dust that should be kept settled; there are cobwebs better off undisturbed. So Kurt moves through the stacks of boxes with great precision, his every movement deliberate, like a surgeon performing a life-saving operation.

He and Rachel—well to be honest, mostly Kurt—had worked hard to make their loft the perfect New York apartment. To make it a home. Kurt admits now, however, that it’s missing something. And so he finds himself here in the dungeon, braving whatever it is that lurks in these cramped, padlocked rooms.

The box he’s looking for is sandwiched between some of Old Rachel’s tchotchkes—there’s a horrid amount of pink stuffed into one open container, and what looks like a leg of some plush animal poking out of another. He shudders.

Kurt’s box holds a collection of things that used to adorn his bookshelves in Lima. One of the items—the one he came down to retrieve—still has a pink sticky note attached to it. He lifts the metal picture frame from the box it’d been stuffed in all these months. Sadly, the flower holder is empty, and Kurt sighs, thinking how ironic it is that the carnation Blaine had given him at prom is missing, but the sticky note is still there—the sticky note he’d bitterly attached last year, the one that meant “leave behind.” And actually, Kurt thinks, that’s ironic too, isn’t it? Or just foreshadowing?

He peels off the note, then affixes it to Rachel’s Box of Pink.

Which makes Kurt wonder if he could just make the  _Pink_  note mean something else now. And why not?  _Love is such a crazy thing,_ he hums, backing ever so slowly out of the storage room, retracing every step.

 


	16. Ricochet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: Saint

“You know better than to play that card, Mister. Not after lying to us about flying to New York for a weekend.  _By yourself._ Jesus, Blaine.”

“But that was—”

“And I still can’t believe you did that. I just can’t. It  _terrifies_  me that you did that—that you travelled alone. Do you understand that, Honey? Because I don’t think you get it. Something could’ve happened to you, and your father and I would have had no idea.  _None_. Oh, Blaine.”

“ _Mom_ —”

“Hey. Don’t start acting like you suddenly care about  _her_  feelings. Or is that all actually part of your act, to get her on your side? She supported the transparent reason you’d peddled to us last year, when you asked us to let you transfer out of Dalton. What did you say back then? You wanted to ‘prove yourself’ at a public school? That was a lie too, wasn’t it? Because we all know you just wanted to be with your boyfriend—the one you don’t have anymore, the one you now want to follow to that performing arts school. Do you not see how pathetic that is?”

“That’s not what—”

“Honey. I just wish you could see what we see. You’re so young, your life is just beginning. It’s just—are you sure? Are you sure you’re not simply, you know, following in your big brother’s footsteps? I know his career must seem so exciting to you, so  _glamorous_  … 

“This has nothing to do with—”

“You know what else is pathetic? Leaving your family on fucking  _Christmas_. Do you know how embarrassing that was for us? How do you explain that? You made  _us_  lie, Blaine. Do you think we could tell the rest of the family that you went to New York with your ex- _boyfriend’s father_ —for what? To beg him to take you back or whatever the hell you thought you would accomplish, on _Christmas._ ”

“ _Dear_ —”

“It’s okay, Mom. He can talk. I—”

“Well  _thanks_  for your permission, son. Look, Blaine. We’re sitting here staring at your three acceptance letters, and you know what? I recall some conversations we’d had about where you would apply and for what kinds of programs. And  _in what states_. And what do we have here? Three performing arts schools. And oh, they all happen to be in New York. I mean, this is ridiculous. That’s what this is.”

“Dad, if you’d just let me—”

“Explain? Sure, you can explain things to us, to me. You know what I want to know? I want to know how this is my life. I’m no saint—who is? But I’ve worked hard, your mother and I both. And in return I have one son we sent to a good college, who then decided to throw that right back in our faces. And then there’s you: hellbent on following in the footsteps of some person who’s clearly discarded you. Can somebody just tell me where I went wrong—where we went wrong? Or where …”

“Or where  _I_  did?”

“Those are your words, son.”

 


	17. Forecast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: East

It’s Friday and it’s spring and Kurt is literally dancing around the loft, a bowl of oatmeal in one hand and a spoon in the other. He pauses as he loads the spoon and inverts it inside his mouth; he likes the way the back of the spoon fits against his palate as he presses his tongue up against the warm cereal. Then he’s dancing again, because Blaine is on his way here,  _right now,_ and Kurt has had so little actual  _Blaine_  all these months, between their ice skating which was forever ago and their meeting at a greasy diner, which was sweet and also gross. But now, now is different because he’ll have an entire  _Saturday_  and two nights and no Rachel, and it feels like the draught is over. He’s teeming with energy, so much that he feels like he wants to jump right out of his skin, but he  _can’t_  and there are hours left to go. And Rachel is gone for the weekend with her dads and Blaine should by flying right now and probably it’s sunny from his vantage point high above that huge storm system crawling its way east, inching along Pennsylvania. So he puts the bowl and spoon in the sink and launches himself into his dancing, and he’s swirling now, a weather system himself as he moves across the space from one end to the other, thinking of the layer of clouds that separates Kurt’s world from his friend’s—or whatever he’s calling that lovely boy these days. 

 


	18. Landing Gear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: Lightning

So that’s lightning, then, from 30,000 feet. 

As the last of the day’s sun dips beneath the gray blanket of clouds—part of a huge system now making its way across Pennsylvania—Blaine watches what look like tiny explosions pop sporadically below. 

It’s a weird feeling, being up here where it’s peaceful, Blaine thinks. The storm doesn’t look like one at all from such a distance.

He suspects that as they near their destination, though, the ride won’t be what it is now. He’ll feel that flip-flopping in his stomach as they lurch through turbulent air, he’ll feel that fleeting moment of panic as images from too many disaster films cloud his mind. He’ll keep his eyes fixed on the back of the seat in front of him and ignore whatever registers on the periphery. 

For now, he’ll take the calm, and the far-away spatter of light. His thoughts drift to Kurt, and the ways he thinks their friendship has grown during these long months spent so far apart. It  _has_  grown, hasn’t it? he wonders. Has it grown enough to be _more?_

Blaine finds his thoughts on the matter to be overcast by the memory of three letters on the kitchen table and the disappointed faces of his parents. His parents, who paid for this flight full-well knowing he would be visiting Kurt, because, in spite of their protests, they let him do what he wants. And what he wants is New York, even if that means making certain—concessions.

He pushes the memory away and looks toward the window, which the night has made a mirror. Taking in his reflection, he rehearses what he’ll say when he sees Kurt. He practices the lines until the runway comes into view.

 


	19. Baggage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: Back

Kurt arrives at the airport in a downpour, and even though he hasn’t had to walk outside much on the journey here, his hair is unsalvageable. It’s pasted flat against his head, so drenched that droplets of water stream down the side of his face, and all he can do is smear them away. 

His lofty mood from earlier is completely gone. He stomps through the automatic doors, makes his way to the baggage claim, then finds a place to stand and wait, sighing as he realizes he’s spent the entire day—longer, come to think of it—waiting.  _For Blaine. For enough time to pass._ And before that: _for his second chance at NYADA. For the courage to leave Lima. For a solo. For a kiss. For his father to be okay._  Life is a lot of waiting, Kurt thinks, absentmindedly running his finger along the knuckles of his other hand, the whir of the conveyor belts drowning out the sounds of people greeting each other, probably happy to have survived a stormy flight—happy to be firmly rooted to the ground again.

He waits and watches as one by one, people retrieve their bags; they drag them off the belt and lug them past where Kurt stands and out the doors.

He realizes, slowly, that he’s been staring at the back of a figure a short distance in front of him—a young man who he registers finally as Blaine, seemingly watching luggage make its way around the carousel. He must have his arms crossed in front of him, Kurt notices, as he takes in his familiar form: hair just barely curling at the nape after a long and likely turbulent flight, broad shoulders, tiny waist. Kurt wants to walk up to him and wrap his arms around him—he wants to envelop him, wants to feel the way the curve of Blaine’s back fits against his own chest. 

He can’t stand the way he hesitates to simply claim what he wants. 

But when he sees Blaine finally lean forward to grasp the bags he’s brought with him this visit, Kurt decides he’s tired of waiting. Or at any rate, he’s tired of waiting alone.

He strides forward as Blaine turns, recognition all over his dazzling smile, and Kurt does exactly what he wishes. He takes Blaine into his arms and says nothing when the luggage drops to the floor, one piece smacking Kurt’s foot before flipping onto its side. It’s solid, after all, and isn’t going anywhere. 

 


	20. Fireside Chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing prompt: Fireplace

Rain pellets the windows of the coffeehouse, reminding everyone—including the barista—why the place is empty tonight.

Not totally empty. In front of the fireplace are two young men, both drenched, seated in the cushy leather chairs that face the flames. The barista brings two mugs of coffee and sets them on the table between them, steam escaping the cups in tiny ribbons.

Aside from the soundtrack endlessly playing in the background, the barista hears only the men—well,  _boys_  she wants to call them, because they’re so young and animated, their expressions so playful. They look at each other in a way that makes the woman feel like she’s intruding, as if  _she_  doesn’t even belong here. Their voices are soft, one deep and warm, the other clean and bright. As the barista begins to wipe the open tables down, their words linger in the air.

“It’s sort of lacking, don’t you think?” says the taller one, nodding toward the gas fireplace. It’s the kind that’s replaced the little fake logs with a monitor that displays endless footage of real wood burning.

The shorter boy responds, “I think it’s kind of cool, actually,” and the barista stops to gaze at the flames-that-aren’t-flames too. The fire is mesmerizing in its own way; it’s both familiar and unfamiliar, a perfect, but ultimately unreal thing.

The barista sneaks a glance as the shorter boy—who has a head full of curly hair now that it’s drying—gets up from his chair and approaches the screen, then touches it, saying, “Look at me, Kurt! I’m playing with fire!”

The boy chuckles, but gets an eye roll in response from the boy named Kurt. 

It’s quiet for a moment, as the barista goes back behind the counter to begin the process of preparing for the next day, of resetting everything. As she darts about, sometimes ducking beneath the counter, she hears snippets of conversation.

“I’m not going to NYADA,” the shorter boy blurts out, and then, “Wait. You’re not surprised? Why aren’t you surprised?”

“Didn’t you have some big argument with your parents about New York? And me?”

“You remembered?”

“You think I’m not paying attention when we talk?  _Still?_  You know I’ve been working on that.”

A lone customer enters then and places an order. As the barista froths the milk, she glances at the boys, who seem to be regarding each other very seriously at the moment. The machine completes its work, and in the quiet that follows she hears the shorter boy say, “I’ll still be in New York, you know. I’m going to do what I want, finally, even if that means I have to work three jobs. They just don’t want to help much with tuition is all. They’re being very you-want-it-so-bad- _you_ -work-for-it about the whole thing.”

The barista focuses again on her work once the customer’s gone. The music and the boys’ talking are simply white noise as she auto-pilots through her tasks. Almost done, she adjusts her apron and reaches for a metal pitcher, only to drop it on the floor. At the sharp sound both boys look up at the woman, who shrugs and says, “Sorry!” They smile and go back to their talking, their voices lower now, more urgent.

“The hug you gave me at the airport wasn’t friendly,” says the curly-haired boy.

“It most certainly  _was_ ,” says Kurt. “It was … more friendly than I expected.”

“That’s my point! It was overly-friendly. Don’t look at me like that—I mean that it was good. That I liked it. I mean it wasn’t too much—”

“Okay, okay. It was just … weird? Seeing you. I’d been waiting all day and I just—”

“I know, Kurt.  _Me, too.”_

The barista feels really bad about this, but she’s got to call it a night. It’s been a long shift, and she has her own special someone waiting for her. She approaches the boys and asks, motioning toward the mugs, “Are you two finished with these?” She pauses, then says, “We need to close soon, though …”

“I think,” says Kurt, looking only at the other boy as he speaks to her, “that we’re just about done.”

The curly-haired boy grins so wide, it’s as if something just sparked inside him. He gets up and grabs what must be Kurt’s coat. Like a perfect gentleman, he helps Kurt put it on, and the barista is grinning herself now as she turns away from them.

“Thank you,” the shorter boy says over his shoulder to the barista, as the two boys head out the door.

As the woman flips the card over on the door, the placard that reads, “Closed,” she spots the two boys just across the street. The rain has stopped for the moment, so she has a clear view of the way the street lamp shines down on their smiling faces. She watches as their expressions turn contemplative, then how the taller boy brushes his thumb along the cheek of the other boy, so clearly his lover, as the curly-haired boy lifts his chin, ready to accept the kiss that is coming.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And . . . that's it! I had fun writing these, and seeing what kind of information I could cram into the short length, through image and detail. Also working with prompts is ALWAYS fun.


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